Remembering November
by BlackRosePoetry
Summary: Saffron always wondered why Patsy hated her so much. Her grandmother never forgot. Rated for character death, language, and angst. The angst in this fic is enough to make Chuck Norris cry.


November 27 was always hell for Patsy.

Always.

She tried drowning everything out in alcohol, gulping down Stolli by the bottle and chasing everything with whiskey shots. After all, wasn't alcohol supposed to help you forget pain? But booze, for once, didn't make the pain go away. It sharpened everything until she couldn't stand for agony, reduced the once-strong and incorrigible blond to clutching her chest while she wailed into Eddy's body. Drugs were the same way, sharpening her pain, honing it to a razorsharp edge rather than providing the sweet relief she so desperately craved.

November 27 ended up being the one day a year Patsy Stone remained sober.

It was the one day a year she truly, desperately, fervently wished for death.

_There was so much blood, so much pain. Even after watching Eddy give birth to Sergio, Patsy hadn't realized how much blood there would be. Her vision was awash with crimson and it frightened her. A searing ache shot through the blonde's lower back and forced her to bite back a shriek. Everything __**hurt**__. _

_ "One more push, Ms. Stone," the nurse coaxed gently. "One more push and he'll be out."_

_ Tears rolled down high cheekbones and mingled with sweat and mascara and foundation. But, for once in her miserable existence, Patsy did as instructed. She pushed with every last ounce of strength her body possessed. The baby –_her baby_ – came into the world without too much difficulty. A relieved grin curled the blonde's cherry red lips, and she collapsed back into the pillows to wait for the inevitable wailing._

_ But there was no crying._

_ There was supposed to be crying, right?_

_ "What's wrong?" Patsy slurred. "Why isn't he crying?"_

_ Doctors and nurses and what seemed to be person in the entire hospital bustled about like a swarm of angry bees. They whisked her boy away without so much as an explanation, didn't even give her a glimpse of what he looked like. Someone managed to stop her bleeding, helped the now-panicking blonde expel the placenta. Still, not a soul would say where her son was. Or explain why he hadn't cried. Terror was clogging Patsy's airway and clamped down on her chest like a vice. _

_ He had to be okay. She had been so _good_, no Bolli, no fags, no pot or ecstasy or speed for the duration of the pregnancy._

_ Her son had to be okay. _

_ It was exactly twenty four minutes and forty-two seconds before the doctor came back with a silent blue bundle and a hollow, "I'm so sorry." Patsy had counted the seconds. Now she was wishing she hadn't._

_ Something inside Patsy's chest shattered. Numbly, mechanically, the blonde reached out for the tiny bundle her physician held. The poor man looked so confused and torn, like he didn't know whether or not to further her grief. She didn't really give a damn._

_ "I want my son," Patsy rasped. "Give him to me."_

_ "Ms. Stone, I don't think that's a good. . ."_

_ Patsy's dark blue eyes welled up with more tears and she barked, "Just give me my son, godammit!"_

_ The doctor – he wasn't worthy of a name anymore – slowly handed over the blue-swaddled bundle. Patsy held the baby gently even as she registered how cold his tiny body was. She couldn't have stopped crying even if she wanted to now, not while her finger traced his little purple oxygen-deprived lips. _

_ "What were you going to name him, miss?" _

_ Damn nurses and their buggered timing and bollocky bedside manners. . ._

_ A choked wail erupted from Patsy's raw throat. Her lips trembled and her body shook as she pressed a kiss to her son's cold forehead. Long nicotine-stained fingers (they were numb, so veryvery numb) stroked the blond peach fuzz atop his head._

_ "His name is James," she croaked. "Now get the hell out of my room, the lot of you."_

_ Again, the doctor opened his mouth to protest. "Ms. Stone, that's really not a good idea. There are procedures. . ."_

_ "GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT!"_

_ Patsy's resounding shriek was inhuman and savage, born from an agony that could never be described by words. The room cleared within seconds. Apparently, the reputation of one Patricia Stone proceeded her. She was finally alone. . ._

_ Alone with the corpse of her baby boy._

_ Tears continued pouring down Patsy's high cheekbones while her fingers stroked the fuzzy blonde curls atop her son's head. She kissed his pale forehead again, kept his tiny blue body close to her heart even while she sobbed. _

_ Even if he wasn't planned, if he had thrown her entire world into chaos and made her completely uncertain for the first time ever, she wanted him. Patsy had _wanted_ her baby, desperately. He was her chance to be different from her mother. James would have been loved, would have been taken care of and worshipped and adored every day of his life._

_ James would have been perfect. He was still perfect. _

_ Patsy traced her son's button nose with a single finger, memorizing his chubby cheeks and tiny heart-shaped face. A rueful, distraught smile curled the blonde's lips; her son looked just like her. It figured that the biggest most wonderful mistake of her life would end up dead and look to be an almost exact copy of her best features. _

_ God had to be a girl. . ._

_ Because God – or whatever the hell power snatched her boy – was a complete whore bitch._

_ "James Edward Stone, you would have been absolutely fabulous. And, my sweet darling boy, you just broke your mother's heart."_

_ That was how Eddy found her, sobbing over her baby boy's cold blue corpse. Eddy didn't ask questions, didn't freak out as per usual, just held her best friend as she sobbed uncontrollably. Patsy rocked back and forth in the hospital bed. _

_ "I wanted him, Eddy!" she wailed. "I wanted my baby! I want my baby! I want my baby!"_

_ "I know, sweetie. I know, darling. You're going to be alright. I've got you now. I've got you."_

Except she wasn't alright. Patsy never really recovered from the loss of her son.

It was evident in how hard and fast she fell into the grip of alcohol, evident in the number of drugs she took on any given night. Eddy didn't want to encourage the behavior. But the blonde could not be reasoned with, and besides, Monsoon women had a tendency to be followers, not leaders, not role models or crutches for those who truly needed them. It was just easier to join in with the boozing than discourage it.

Then Eddy found out she was pregnant.

Patsy didn't speak to her for weeks, couldn't even be near her during the third trimester. She even went so far as to tell the brunette party-girl to abort while she had the chance. Eddy was hurt; however, she somewhat understood why her best friend was being this way. Losing a baby and only months later being told your best friend was going to have a baby of her own would traumatize any woman.

Still, Patricia Stone was not any normal woman.

Then Saffron – Saffy, Eddy dubbed the overly chubby ball of fat – came along. She was a happy accident. Just like James. And Patsy hated her from the moment she found out the little girl was coming. She fell deeper into the whirlpool of despair and hatred and drugs, tormented by the thought of Edina bloody Monsoon having a healthy baby of her own.

Because it wasn't fair.

Nothing was fair in the whole buggery world anymore. Why should Eddy's baby live, with all the nicotine and Bolli circulating in its bloodstream, and her James die?

She had done everything right and her baby boy had still died.

It wasn't fair.

November 27 rolled around. Patsy buried everything deep inside herself, desperately wanting to reach for a bottle of vodka even though she knew it would only make everything worse. So she curled up like a beast on her best mate's couch and sobbed into an expensive throw cushion. The blonde didn't want to spend James's birthday alone in her flat.

It had been four years and she still hadn't the heart to clear out the nursery.

The tears were a steady flow instead of a torrent now. But it still felt like someone had shoved a red-hot razorblade through her breast bone. And she was all alone as always.

Eddy and Justin had gone clubbing, too wrapped within their new marriage to realize what day it was, too wrapped up in themselves to realize they were leaving their six-month-old daughter alone with Edina's senile mother. Still, Mrs. Monsoon had been the one to wrap a blanket around Patsy's shoulders when she showed up on the doorstep with tears in her eyes and a onesie in her hand.

(_"You stay here as long as you like, darling girl. Don't you worry about a thing."_)

The old woman was supposed to be watching the miserable little troll. But bless her withered little heart, Patsy didn't have the presence of mind to care about whether or not Saffy was in the same house.

She still wanted her baby back.

He would have been so perfect, the most perfect four year old ever created.

A wail pierced the silence in the sitting room and Patsy curled even further into herself. The stream of tears thickened. God, why couldn't life just cut her a break? This hurt.

"Mrs. M!" Patsy croaked. "Mrs. M, the brat's crying!"

The ceaseless whimpering and crying strengthened in volume, echoing off the parlor walls. Patsy's shredded nerves frayed around the edges, pulled apart with each new cry. It finally reached a point Patsy could no longer take. She uncurled from her protective ball and stumbled onto the landing, body trembling from nervousness. Or withdrawals. Or both. The blonde woman couldn't really differentiate anymore. There was just too much alcohol and pot and ecstasy for that now.

Patsy had to swallow a sob when she reached Eddy's tastefully (for her, of course) decorated nursery. Everything was for a tiny person here. A changing table in one corner, a large cot in the center, a dresser stuffed to the brim with nappies and onesies and miniature shoes. It was just like James's room.

Only Saffron – or whatever the hell the little bitch troll's name was – lived on while her James lay cold in his grave.

The pitiful annoying shriek of the baby reached unparalleled levels. It broke Patsy out of her despair-daze, made her blue eyes focus for the first time in years. Autopilot flipped for the blonde. She strode further into the room, each step a marathon, each foot a challenge, and looked into the cot. Her darkened watery gaze locked onto the screeching baby girl, scanning her mousey brown hair and red, scrunched up face.

Admittedly, Saffron looked a lot like Eddy when she was having a tantrum.

That cry wasn't a hungry one. And the tiny brat didn't need changing. Patsy didn't know how she could distinguish the cries. But she could. It was annoying. It was depressing. It was confusing. But if the brat wasn't hungry or didn't need a new nappy, maybe. . .

No.

She couldn't do it.

Her heart couldn't take it.

James was the one she wanted to hold and cuddle and rock into unconsciousness.

Not this wailing monstrosity that had sprung from Eddy's diseased alcohol-riddled womb.

Patsy scooped the screeching baby girl into her arms and cuddled her close without realizing it. Almost immediately, the ceaseless wailing began to lower in volume. It felt _right_, even after all those years. Long nicotine-stained fingers that trembled violently cupped the tiny child's head and stroked through silky brown curls. The blonde woman bounced up and down and rocked side to side.

"Shu. . . hush up now, darling," Patsy cooed. "Your mother and father will be home very soon, sweetie. I've got you. Don't cry. Stop crying."

Slowly, surely, Saffron's cries began to quiet. Eventually, the baby girl was dozing against Patsy's shoulder. She gurgled quietly. Tiny hands grasped at blonde hair and pale skin. The older woman offered Saffy a finger to grab hold of, silent and depressed as miniscule fingers wrapped around the slender digit.

It should have been James taking hold of her finger.

Not this miserable little turnip.

Lips wobbling violently while Saffron fell asleep, Patsy stared into a shadowed corner. Her mind was off in another room, one that was blue rather than pink, with orange around the trim. James was lying in his cot there, sleeping soundly even though she was stroking back his hair with one hand. His hair would have been thick and silky and blonde. Just like hers.

He would have been so wonderful.

"I hate you," Patsy whispered. "I hate you more than you will ever know."

The tiny girl slept on, oblivious to Patsy's promise of hatred. She was so _tiny_, so _innocent_. Saffron was going to grow up with everything at her disposal, everything that had been snatched away from her at a very young age. Everything that James would have had.

Oh, how she hated her.

"Patricia? Patricia, dear, what are you doing in here? You should be in bed."

Mrs. Monsoon's high-pitched concern caught Patsy by surprise. The blonde jumped, clutching the tiny girl to her chest with wide blue eyes. It took a moment for her to relax fully, but the moment she did, Saffron was back in the cot and she was pushing past the old woman.

"The brat was crying. I just wanted her to shut up."

By the look on her face, Mrs. M wasn't buying her lousy excuse for a moment. But she didn't question. Didn't do anything other than smile gently and watch as the younger woman rushed to get away from the tiny human that mocked her loss.

Saffron never knew why Patsy hated her so much.

But her grandmother never forgot.

And neither did Patsy.


End file.
